The Game
by Sunday morning on saturday
Summary: A Johnlock (sherlolly too) ficlet written for a friend, a hunger games au that turned out to contain little johnlock indeed. And he was so busy taking in every last detail of his new surroundings that he collided with a man. A doctor in training actually. District 7. "Oh you complete idio-" the man's voice. He was irritable, rather understandably, considering the situation.


He could win.  
He didn't doubt that, the rest of the selected tributes seemed painfully boring and ordinary and with carefully selected strategies, of course he could win. He was more than capable of the trivial task. Careers would be sticky but manageable and the rest would drop like flies.  
Silence lingered on, a few times he thought Molly would open her mouth to say something a few times, but she didn't. The train slid along the tracks easily, the ride was quiet. Actually it wasn't quiet, Sherlock was fairly sure his mentor attempted to say something to him a few times but no attention had been paid.  
His brother had visited the Capitol a few times, but he hadn't exactly been treated to in depth descriptions of these top secret events. Mycroft had come home one evening, still in his regular old suit, but something had been different. The location of his 2 day business trip had not been specified but the wafting smell of roses when he passed him and the neatly pressed nature of his clothes made it all too obvious. Mycroft's privileges clearly didn't extend to the point of having any power over the position Sherlock had been put in however.  
'Or maybe,' Sherlock had mused under his break earlier 'he's just enjoying this.'  
"We will work together in there, won't we?" Molly's said after a moment, her hands shook ever so slightly. A tremor betraying her composure. She was scared, of course she was. She hadn't anticipated being reaped. Her voice penetrated Sherlock's thoughts and grounded him.  
His mind was instantly filled with various scenarios in which large pikes were jabbed through Molly's sides and arrows slicing through her neat chest. Poison berries that could be snuck into her food and a dagger cutting her throat, a neat slit releasing a steady flow of blood. Twisting disgusting organs and gruesome cruel deaths that she could suffer were ever so slightly unnerving as in each of the visions, he was the one firing the arrow or jabbing the pike.  
"You'd be a liability." He said coolly, only the barest hesitation before the words slipped past his lips.  
"Too bad." She shrugged "We're allies Sherlock." She met his gaze, her stare was steady and she suddenly seemed a great deal stronger. He decided it easier not to argue with he's right now.  
The motion stopped, the sun shone somewhat artificially. A little too bright and sickly in some way. There was a variety of other tributes scattered across the platform. The careers were easily identifiable. There was also one fierce woman who looked strong -probably from her job, pushing carts around all day. Two shopkeepers and one baker, none particularly intimidating. One 18 year old mother and a man who looked at ease with hunting from district 8. There was a variety of others whom he couldn't quite see from his current position.  
The steps clinked as he stepped down from the train. Molly was by Sherlock's side. He would be somewhat thankful for her company had she not been so undeserving of this fate. And he was so busy taking in every last detail of his new surroundings that he collided with a man. A doctor in training actually. District 7.  
"Oh you complete idio-" the man's voice. He was irritable, rather understandably, considering the situation. He trailed off, looking over at Sherlock carefully, he seemed a little stuck for words for a moment as he watched him. "Sorry"  
"Why are you apologising? It was my fault." Sherlock said. His eyebrows furrowed and his forehead creased in a confusion. He paid special attention to the man, he was competition of course.  
Before any more interaction could be made, the crowd was moving and bustling again. He got one last glance back at the man before he disappeared from sight. Molly grabbed his hand and squeezed it.  
They would not be killing each other or dashing for the cornucopia for several weeks. They would not be fighting so hard for survival nor setting foot in the arena nor hear any cannons for a while yet. But the game had started. Had started the second his name was pulled from the large glass bowl. The game was on.  
And Sherlock was ready for the game.


End file.
